The Social Contract

Graduation

On occasion I sat with Abra and Araby at lunch. Ross and Jackson took geography junior year, and some longstanding first Tuesday of the month assignment due immediately after lunch contributed to their perennial absence on that day. My decision of fresh company was nothing personal; at the time my self-confidence level was such that I would've had to wait it out in the library if a convenient alternate group hadn't made itself available.

Man, I wish Araby hadn't been so nerdy. I would have stolen her from Abra like the snap of a hat. I'd go into a lot more detail here, but I'd end up having to apologize to Araby, Abra, Rosemary, and essentially every woman everywhere.

Writing this out has made me realize just how sad I was in those days. If it sounds like I caught the hots for every girl who would sit still long enough, it's because I did. Familiarity may have bred contempt as I aged, but shameless lust was a phase I just had to pass through naturally.

As it was, Araby's conversations with Abra were quite nerdy, such that I hardly caught every third word spoken in their private language. Perhaps I could've skimmed, scanned, and LiveLearned my way through their favorite fandoms, but in this case laziness did what pride and integrity would not. I tuned them out and fed my eyes as sneakily as I could. Then Araby's friend whose name I could never remember would start to eye me in turn, and I'd bail.

Once I actually did try to tell Araby about my unified theory of communism ... She didn't actually laugh, but I almost wish she would have and gotten it over with.

“No,” I was still saying ten minutes later, “see, there isn't a currency. No money. Obviously there can't be an economy without any money, right? So there's no such thing as a recession!”

Araby looked ready to smack me. “You don't understand, Tyler. There's still an economy even with the barter system. There's still production and markets and stuff … help me out here Abra; you've read more Singh than I have.”

“It doesn't matter! Because there's no dollar to be weakened!”

“Tyler, it's not … I don't think I can have this conversation with you. You don't have the background.”

Abra had my back as he always did, though, and mercifully turned the talk to lighter matters. “It's impossible to say without a bigger sample size. Anyway, did you hear they're changing the skirt rule for next year?”

After school, though, he pulled me aside. “I'm sorry about Araby. She wasn't trying to be mean. She just … hangs out with a lot of people like her.”

I shrugged. “Doesn't everyone?”

“But I think what she was trying to tell you was, there are people who've had the same ideas as you already. And they left behind their writings, so the discussion could advance, and --”

“I get it Abra. I'm dumb.”

He looked a little shocked, but not nearly enough.

“Why didn't you tell me I was dumb?”

“You're not dumb. I mean … even if I were somehow the authority on who was dumb. I don't think you're dumb, anyway. There's a difference between being smart and being an academic.”

“Arguing semantics,” I told him.

“I'm not, actually. There is an important difference between native cognitive ability and the amount of material digested.”

“Well why didn't you tell me … whatever you just said. That I'm --”

“That you haven't read all the stuff I've read? You want to know why I don't stop the conversation every five seconds and complain that you'll never be able to understand because we haven't lived the exact same life?”